


Saint Valentine’s Secret

by Maesonry



Category: My Bloody Valentine (1981), My Bloody Valentine (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hurt/Comfort, I have feelings and they need to b heard, Implied Past Trauma, M/M, Reader-Insert, Romance, Self-Indulgent, Some Humor, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-10-28 23:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20787092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maesonry/pseuds/Maesonry
Summary: Your daddy always told you not to take in strays, cause your heart was too big, and they’d just take and take and take.Good thing you ain’t never listened to your daddy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Canon divergence in that Harry disappears after the original murders- but, actually disappears. Just up and leaves, and, well, stumbles upon this little cabin in the woods. 
> 
> Enter you.
> 
> Rated M because of the source material. And M for _muuurdeeer_

Nobody visited you out in the woods. It was just a fact of life, and it was a fact that you had cultivated specifically. Far off from the nearest town, only you, the echoing mountains, and a hundred trees. It was simple. It was everything you wanted. And, it was nice.

Morning began when you woke up, and the day ended when you went to bed.

That’s how it went. And how it would always go. 

On the morning of Monday, February 16th, you woke up like every other, blinking away beams of sunlight. Your cabin had exactly three rooms total, and your bedroom was one of them, the only room at the top of the stairs- and thus, the only room that was hit by the full rays of daybreak. You lay in bed and held your eyes closed and breathed in deeply, in and out, feeling the trickle of cold air seep into the space. Winter’s chill was still here, and still plenty. You could, of course, simply stay in bed for the rest of the morning- one of the joys of the simple life, where you were your own master. But as tempting as that was, you couldn’t. At least, not today. Perhaps tomorrow or the next. 

You threw the covers back, braced yourself against the cold snap, and then set your feet onto the floor. Even with the rug and your socks, there was cold. A kind of laugh escaped you as you danced from one foot to the other, chasing fleeting warmth and settling on grabbing a blanket from the bed to wrap around your shoulders. 

Your morning routine was always the same. Out of bed, get dressed, and now, go the bathroom. With flannel top, warm pants, and wool socks, you looked like a beacon of warmth and good nature. Or possibly a effigy to Paul Bunyan. But, that was an American thing. The bathroom was on the first floor, tucked under and in the staircase, so you rambled down the stairs and into the bathroom, and several minutes later, you ambled back out. Right into the kitchen, as always- or perhaps the living room, depending on how it was viewed. The only thing important to you, though, was the fireplace. And the fact that it wasn’t full of fire in this moment. A problem, you decided, you’d quickly remedy.

Boots, scarf, and gloves quickly put on, you braved yourself again and stepped outside. This time, the cold air was more of a smack in the face, somehow more insulting (or insulted) without any snow. It almost made you reconsider getting up this morning. Almost. But fire meant warmth, and that would make this all worth it. You could laze around the rest of the day if you really wanted, just... after the fire. Thankfully for you, some logs were already ready to be cut up near the edge of the tree line, so you grabbed your axe and went to work.

Or you would’ve. But right as you split the first log in twain, your eyes shifted to the left, and your ears perked up. Two things: there was a little blood on the ground, and two, you could (barely) hear breathing. 

Your first reaction was... leave. Ignore it. Pretend it hadn’t happened, or better yet, run to the house and lock the doors and then sleep with a hatchet for the night. Already, your mind conjured up a hundred horror stories. That it was some escaped criminal, that it was a deranged townsfolk, that it was both at the same time or, or- just, bad stuff. Anything to do with other people was bad stuff. That’s why you lived out here. That’s why you liked it out here.

So you did consider, for a moment, ignoring it. 

But only for a moment. You couldn’t, though. There wasn’t ever a choice, when confronted with someone or something that could’ve been hurt. You wouldn’t ignore them. 

Not like you’d been.

But, you still held onto the axe as you slowly walked towards the source. Hidden behind some rocks, trees, and shrubs. Your boots cracked dried out branches and frost, stepping around the splotches of red that grew. The breathing sounded labored for all that it was faint. Muffled. You spun the axe in your hands once, twice, then decisively shoved some final tree limbs out of view and stepped forward.

And almost stepped right back. 

“Well,” you managed, “This can’t be good.”

The man on the ground didn’t reply. You didn’t expect a reply. He was covered in blood, mud, and soot, and his miner gear looked like it had seen better days. What was a miner doing all the way out here? You didn’t know. The nearest mine was... Hanniger Mine, but that was a two day walk on foot. 

No, no. That didn’t matter at the moment. What did matter was that, right now, whoever this man was, he was hurt, and that was all you needed to get. You leaned down a little, staring into his mask.

“Hello? Are you-“ alive, dead, “alright?”

Or even awake. He didn’t move, but his chest was rising and falling, so that was as good as you were going to get. You set the axe against a tree and put your arms under his, hauling him off the ground with a hiss of effort. You were strong, sure, but even this was a little difficult. The cabin might as well have been a mile away. 

Still, though, you managed just fine. 

“Stay with me, pal,” you grunted, pulling him through the doorway. You quickly set him on the couch, by the fireplace, and you cast a glance outside before shaking your head and pulling out some logs from the emergency stash. Nothing for it now. You’d just have to cut even more tomorrow. 

Some tinder, kindling, and finally, logs later, the fire was underway. Already, it was much warmer in the small cabin, as you shucked off your boots. The scarf and gloves went in with the pile, and after a brief moment, you quickly went upstairs and grabbed a spare set of clothes too, bringing them downstairs with you and setting them on the couch next to the stranger. 

And you stared.

“Wish I knew the first thing about first aid,” you muttered to yourself. Was he sleeping? Or was he seriously hurt? You weren’t certain, and you weren’t about to undress him. Wouldn’t be right. But that still left you with no idea what to do, or how to do it. 

Think. Think. You squinted, staring at the blood on him. Most of it was dried, actually- couldn’t be fresh. Old wound, maybe? And the blood that was fresh looked like it was coming from... 

“The side,” you stated. Ok. That meant you had to stem that blood flow. You looked around for a moment, before stepping over to the kitchen. One warm basin of soapy water, a rag, some old cloth and sewing supplies from under the sofa. The man still hadn’t moved when you came back, and you reached out to his mask, hesitated, then completed the action to take it off. It felt wrong. But he couldn’t be breathing right in that thing, and, that was all you’d be doing. No clothes removed neither. Just the mask. A compromise. 

“Whew,” You whistled in surprise as you set the mask down, “You look like shit, buddy.” 

He really did. Still, wasn’t an issue right now. Instead, you made sure his breathing was better, then turned your attention to his side. Carefully, you removed his hand from the site, then tore at the coveralls a little to fully expose the damage. Didn’t look too deep. And with a few gentle swipes from the wet rag, most of the blood and dirt was gone as well. But it looked deep enough that you decided that stitching it would have to happen, and you really, really wished you knew if this was a good idea or not, because you were gonna do it and damnit all to hell if you fucked up.

“Better count our prayers,” you muttered, looked over to the man’s face again, then picked up the needle and some thread. Deep breath. 

It was gruesome work. It reminded you, almost, of fixing up your old jacket, which was disturbing to say the least. You’d stop every few stitches to make sure he was alright, then start up again, and by the time you were finished, you’d had to wipe up the blood a second time and get a glass of water to stop your shaking. 

“I really ain’t cut out for this stuff,” you mumbled into the glass, but there was that feeling of relief that it was done now. The water gone, you even wiped up his face too, the sweat, dirt, and dust that had built up over however long. It still made you feel bone tired, though, in a way you couldn’t describe. The cloth was wrapped around his torso, the dirty water dumped, and you set a fresh glass beside him as you sat in the nearby chair and slowly... slowly closed your eyes. You didn’t mean to, but the room was so warm, and you just felt so tired, and before you knew it-

You’d gone and fallen right asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

You woke up with a start, and you were on your feet even faster, hand reaching for the knife in your bedstand and snarling and-

And blinking, and breathing, and stopping. 

Inhale, exhale.

You sat back down in the chair. The tendrils of the nightmare slowly ebbed, disappearing like ash in the wind, leaving behind only that horrible feeling and the memories you stuffed away. You picked your head up from your hands, though, when you heard shifting. The man on the couch was awake. And, he was watching you. Something in his eyes. You cocked a smile that wasn’t really a smile, more of a grimace with frills, and your shoulders told a story in the way they hunched inward. 

“Sorry,” you apologized, then set your head back into your hands, your smile gone, “It’s always worse this time of year.”

Goddamn Valentine’s Day. 

Still, the man was watching you. And he was awake, which you could interpret as a good thing. You shuffled away memories and then unfolded, looking over to him again. Something jumbled in his eyes. 

“A-“ his voice was nearly crackle quiet, and you quickly pointed to the glass of water, which he eyed for a moment, then took. You drew some shapes on your pants.

“Sorry about your uh,” you gestured, “mask,” then fumbled for something else to say before and your voice came out louder with your uncertainty, “You were hurt, so I stitched you up too.”

He set the glass down. The staring contest resumed.

“Do you have a name?” you asked, since it was polite, and it seemed like a fair trade for bleeding on your sofa. He coughed a few times, inhaled with a wet sound, then replied.

“Harry Warden.”

Didn’t ring a bell, but you didn’t expect it to. You rolled a shoulder in a shrug. 

“Nice to meet you then, Mr. Warden,” you said as you stood up, cracking a few of your bones. You grabbed the empty glass, and one of your own, then went to grab some fresh water from the kitchen. 

“What’s your name?” the dry, crackling voice of Harry Warden. 

You paused.

The last time you’d given anyone your name was seven years ago. A lifetime. You wanted to say, I don’t like names. But you dug around for one that seemed good enough, because Harry was a guest, and he’d given you his name, so fairs fair.

“Del,” you replied, leaning back over the sofa to give him the new glass, “Careful to uh- not drink too fast. Might get sick.”

And then you went back to sitting in the chair. The fire was still blazing away, and you threw another log on it, glancing over to your guest.

“The spare clothes are for you, if you want.”

The room was quiet, except for the crackle of your fire, and the sound of you occasionally shifting or Harry coughing a little. 

“You hungry?” you asked. He looked like he was looking for a catch.

“Why?” 

“Cause you’re a guest.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yea, I don’t, but I’m gonna.“

For such a large man, he looked oddly frightened. Cagey. Some kinda fever in his eyes. Coming n going like wind in the trees. 

You stood up again, “I’m gonna make some lunch,” you cast an askew glance at your stranger. Waiting for him to say what was on his mind. It was a familiar expression, one you caught in the mirror on yourself. 

“No meat.”

“Sure thing.”

Your lack of protest seemed equally surprising. Just like that. And just like that, his face shifted, as if he had changed his catalogue of you. And then it changed even more when you didn’t press the issue. Or ask. Just went to cut up some carrots. 

“You can use the bathroom to change if you want,” you called over your shoulder, “I can, well, wash your,” you waved your hand for a moment, “jumpsuit, if you want it back.”

His expression was that same almost curious, startled, hadn’t shifted, still mixed with cautious and even a little angry.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

You cut into a few more carrots, dug around for some eggplant, and thought for a moment, “Well, you can help me cut some wood tomorrow if you wanna repay me.” 

That must’ve done it. Hard working guy, wanted to make his own keep, but a damn fool too. He got up, slowly, keeping an eye on you, but took one look at the bathroom (tiny, small, cramped, even claustrophobic on a bad day) and made another face. You made a face too.

“You can get changed down here if you want, I’ll keep my back turned,” you offered, but the moment the words left your mouth, you made a startled and almost poisoned expression. Suddenly you felt like you were a hundred miles away- fabric shifting and warm breath and right behind you, where you couldn’t see, couldn’t notice and couldn’t-

“No,” Harry’s voice broke through. It felt like a rope for someone drowning in a river, sturdy, solid, “No, I can get changed upstairs, if that’s alright.”

Compromise. Compromise for two people that were both neck deep in whatever their own troubles were, but too stubborn to say it outright. You nodded without turning around and Harry nodded too,, and then you were both standing stiffly, one moment, two, and then Harry walked upstairs and you threw the vegetables into a pan to steam, absently chewing on a stray carrot as your eyes roamed. 

You weren’t stupid. Not all of that blood could’ve come from Mr. Warden. And he was awfully cagey, a part of you warned, wary like a- a metaphor, or something, you weren’t sure. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that Mr. Warden must have killed someone. 

But all that thought gave was a little shrug. 

Wouldn’t do to speculate. And the man would tell you if he wanted to, or if he felt ready. He didn’t seem like some psycho murderer, and even if he was, well... it’d be his last mistake. Seven years was a long time, after all- you wouldn’t get snuck up on a second time. 

But, to you right now, Harry was just a man. So you shook those thoughts from your mind and went back to finishing up lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deadass the struggle with Warden is that in the original all you get is that he was a hard worker. I’m literally trying to snap a personality into existence on this guy but damn if it ain’t fun


	3. Chapter 3

Contrary to popular belief- held by no one around, but still- you didn’t dislike company. That much. You didn’t like people, but a single person, in a single controlled location... wasn’t terrible. Certainly helped that you had weapons dotted around in discrete locations, a knife or a fire poker or a letter opener and on and on. So, yes. Company wasn’t exactly fun, but in this instance, you couldn’t say you disliked it.

Which was why you ventured an offer.

“Your side needs to heal,” you said, errantly stabbing at the steamed and fried pepper. Mr. Warden looked at you for a moment, and you continued, “So, either I drive you to the nearest town-“ he seemed to flinch- “to a doctor-“ and your own eyes twisted a little at that, “or you stay here for a while till the wounds’re fine.”

Or fine enough. Fine enough for someone living in the woods with a sewing kit. Harry took slow, low sips of his water, like he wasn’t sure when he’d get it again, and then he replied with that same gravelly voice.

“I’ll stay. If that’s fine.”

You snorted into some eggplant.

“Pal, as long as you help out with some chores, I won’t mind. Still, though...” you stopped. Looked at him with that gaze, the one that spoke of tired honesty, “What are you running from?”

He froze. Every muscle in his body tensed. Oh, it was like looking in a mirror on a bad day, and you knew exactly how it felt too. So you spoke quick.

“I’m not prying,” your voice was fast and loud, and it was like stumbling through the snow, haphazard, then jumbled and slow, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t- didn’t mean to upset you.”

Your apology drifted in the air. It reached his ears, and he looked up to you. Surprise. Confusion. You could’ve been buried in that gaze, buried under the weight of it. It said a lot. It said things that would’ve been right at home here. 

“What,” he set his fork down. Brought a hand to his face, like he was trying to calm down, or couldn’t process something, “What do you want?” he had gotten tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop, and now he was striking.

“Well, I-“ you blinked, tried, “I don’t understand,” _you did_.

“Everything,” his voice was thick, “You’re either lying, or you want something from me-“ 

“I don’t want anything-“

“Everyone blames me!-“

“I don’t!” you didn’t mean to shout, but you did. Seven years alone with your thoughts and your guilt. Seven years of blaming and running and you knew- you saw yourself in his eyes, in all the ways you shouldn’t have. No one cared, seven years ago, but even if you were the only one now, it would be enough. Had to be. Your voice got a little louder, “And I- I-“

Then it stopped entirely. You sat down, didn’t even realize you’d stood up, and then your face was in your hands. An inhale, an exhale. Your voice sounded older than the trees.

“They say it was your fault. They don’t listen. You should’ve done something,” your voice rolled from your throat, deep, forgotten, “So it’s always your fault. And if that’s your fault, then you might as well do worse.”

Harry- Harry had sat down too. The table was small, and he was watching you now, one elbow on the table like he wanted to hunch in or push away. Warring emotions, fight or flight. 

“It’s not your fault,” you said softly. For past or present. Your laugh was unhappy and bitter in some form, even if only at the edges, “Goddamn Valentine’s Day. Like Saint Valentine’s dirty little secret.”

Harry could’ve stepped up and left. He was a guest, and you’d just shouted at one another, after all. But he didn’t. He took the words you’d said, and held them somewhere close. Like no one had ever said them before. 

And then, just like you, he spoke.

“It was Hanniger Mine.”

You looked up. He was looking out the window as he spoke, voice like dust.

“I didn’t have a choice. They left us-“ he turned to you and for a moment there was heat, anger, explosion in his iris that died off immediately, “And.”

The and hung in the air. He was chewing his way through the story and hit a section he didn’t want to remember at all.

“I did what I had to.”

What no one else would. You’d heard the collapse of Hanniger Mine, used that newspaper as kindling with the hundreds of sensationalized extra copies they’d thrown out two months in. A nightmare. Oh, the horror. The monstrous acts committed below.

You’d always laughed at that part.

And here he was. The only survivor. Mr. Warden, hunched in his seat, the memories pressing in around him, hunting and howling. Well, that’d explain the blood, you reckoned. Yet, it didn’t seem fair. His story in exchange for nothing. You cracked your lips, and your breath felt cold like death.

“They were a doctor,” you said, frigid. Harry was staring at you now. You held your hands out and mimed squeezing something, “No one believed me. One day I couldn’t take it. I grabbed that stupid goddamn head, and squeezed-“ till poppies and orchids grew on their grave. You dropped your hands. Leaned back.

Silence again. 

And then you laughed. A chuckle. A small thing. Weary. Something else. Harry gave a little disbelieving one too. 

“What a pair we make, eh?” you glanced over. He had a small smile on. Was this the first? You couldn’t remember. He smiled, and it made things seem right. Made the firelight warmer. The chill lesser. You smiled back, “Yeah. What a pair.”

Lunch grew cold. But you didn’t mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Men came.

It had been a week. One week, since you’d found Harry Warden in the snow, since you’d both broken down and built back up and reached some sort of strange almost living. Harry’s side was nearly healed- nearly, but not quite. That was why he was inside, doing something with the stove, while you chopped more wood outside.

That’s how you saw the men first. 

You set your axe down and wiped sweat from your brow, letting it fall into the fresh, almost ethereal layer of snow that was on the ground. Cold enough for sounds to carry for miles. 

And sights, if one looked hard enough.

“Now, what...” you whispered, squinting through the trees, “in the goddamn...”

Oh, now that was a sight. An unwelcome one, for sure. What was worse than one stranger? A group of them. A group of men, three maybe, trudging through the landscape, towards your cabin. The scientific term for their gathering would be a _threat_. You took a few steps back.

They hadn’t noticed you yet. You still had time to flee, if you so desired. But a tiny part of your brain whined that you wouldn’t be able to finish your chore, and what a truly compelling argument. The larger part warned about safety. Your own, and that of Mr. Warden.

So you grabbed your axe. Oh, you were scared out of your wits, but it had been seven years since you made peace with your crime- and the only person who could judge you now was God. 

Didn’t mean you couldn’t be scared on a more physical level. And scared for your guest. The first friend you’d made in... too long. You swung the axe once, twice, then stepped back a little, anxiously resuming your chores. Up, down. Logs split in two. You got through about four before the sound carried close to your ears and you lowered your axe, eyeing the approaching group with wariness and trepidation.

At least Harry was out of sight. Hopefully, if he had any streak of sense, he’d stay out of sight too. 

“Excuse me!” a voice called, “Excuse me, pardon, just a moment...”

Adrenaline twisted through you, pooling in your legs and making you jitter in place like a jackrabbit under a hawk. You stayed the course, though, and turned around to greet them.

Three men. Police, by their bearing. Their expressions had painful earnestness and uncertainty etched in place. Perhaps even fear. None of which would compare to the mountain of trepidation that you wore, but it wasn’t a dick measuring contest there. 

“Hello there,” you greeted, polite, “What can I do for you?”

_And what can I do for you to leave?_

The tallest looked around for a moment before taking a half step forward, “We’re sorry for the intrusion. We noticed your house on the region map, and, well...”

The middle one took up the slack, “We’re a police force from a nearby town,” and the name disappeared from your memory the moment they said it. That was where Hanniger Mine was at, if you recalled. The middle man kept on, flashed his badge a little, “And we’re investigating a missing criminal.”

“Mental patient,” rectified the final man.

“_Criminal_.”

“He hasn’t been formally prosecuted or charged yet.”

“He killed people. I think it’s safe to call him a criminal.”

You coughed into your fist, got their attention, “‘Scuse me, gents, but who are we talking about?”

The tallest glanced at his colleagues before giving a little sigh. A heavy sigh, almost pitying, “Harry Warden.”

_Why no, officers, no clue who that is, and he certainly isn’t fixing my stove at the moment._

“Never heard of him,” you lied.

“It’s just a precaution,” the shortest officer shook his head, “We just wanted to warn you to lock your doors at night and be on the lookout for any strange figures until we can sort this out.”

“When we kill him,” a venomous addition.

Your eyes blinked, then, too quickly, shot to and from the house. Two of them didn’t notice. One did. 

“Do you live alone?” the middle rose an eyebrow. 

Without missing a beat, you casually flexed your axe arm, and replied, “Well, yes.”

“Then who was that in the window?”

Ah. Right. You eyed the trio. Thought about your axe for a moment. Debated your inner morality, of trying to fight them off without hurting them to protect someone who was technically your friend but not.

“No one.”

“No one?”

“I think you’re just seeing things, Officer,” you murmured, voice pitched like a threat, using your height to loom over the shortest one. A brief staring contest, but then, well. The decision was made for you, as the tallest decided to walk towards the front door. You hurried behind them all, talking a mile a minute, trying to slow them down while you thought of a plan or while Harry tried to find some place to hide. 

“Oh, houses are just like that- really, I’d prefer if you didn’t investigate, actually, now, hold on just a moment-“

They knocked on the door. The door that was still partially open from your last quick jaunt in, and so it swung open. And because it was just a cherry icing on top, Harry was right on the other side of the door. It would only take a second for them to recognize his face. But, Harry was remarkably smart when he wanted to be. He reached out before they could even realize, and then grabbed you, and-

Ducked his face into your neck. You brought your arm up on instinct, onto his hair, then your entire body went on alarm at the sudden, unexpected physical contact. You felt yourself begin to panic. There was red spreading across your face. You said the first thing that came to mind.

“Not here, honey, there’s police...”

The officers all stopped. There was a beat of silence, when you wondered if your ruse would fall apart, but then the moment passed. After all, it couldn’t be Harry Warden; Warden wouldn’t wear those clothes, and he certainly wouldn’t be doing... that, with someone else. That you were alive at all meant it couldn’t be Warden. And very, very quickly, the officers they suddenly all seemed to have other things to notice, right at this moment. Anywhere but looking at the two of you. One was facing the entire opposite direction. 

“I’m sorry, we-“

“Enjoy your evening, we didn’t mean to interrupt-“

“Please don’t hesitate to contact us if you need-“

And they said their final words, apologized more, then ... left. Just left. Trudging back through to snow to their car, likely, none the wiser, and hopefully, never to darken your door again. Leaving you standing there, axe still in your hands, Harry Warden still pressed against your neck. 

Were you going to pass out here? It felt like it. You felt like you were angry, or livid, but it kept slipping with confusion, the warring sensation of physical contact mixed with memories. Seven years since you’d been touched at all. His nose was cold for some reason. Why was his hair so soft?

Then he pulled away. You were still standing there, not sure what to do or say. Part of your mind roared. The other part whimpered.

You, rather abruptly, decided to go with somewhere in the middle. You reached forward, and- pressed your hand to the side of his face. An incredibly intimate gesture. You didn’t know if he’d accept it, so your hand had nearly backed off halfway, but the gesture was completed, and his face was warm and stubble rough and you didn’t know what to do or say so you just didn’t. You muttered something lost to the air.

And Harry didn’t back away from your touch, like you hadn’t from his.

Perhaps it would be more telling to say, that as the weeks came and Harry’s wound healed, he stayed with you. For many, many years, indeed. 

You didn’t mind at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I’ll do an epilogue, maybe not. ‘S small and cute and yeaaAAAA boys


End file.
